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Due to the Digital Millennium Copyright Act (DMCA), I am no longer allowed to post music roundups. Think that's retarded? YEAH, ME TOO.

Friday, June 22, 2007

Three! It's a Magic Number

Darwin, ::sigh:: today you are three years old.

That's officially not-a-baby-anymore, despite the fact that you refuse to use the potty and you're still a running pooper.

And a massive punk.

I should have realized what a punk you would be when you were still in my belly. You tried to come at 22 weeks. Which resulted in a hospital stay, horse pills and bed rest. Then, an hour after you were born the nurses took you to the NICU. A few hours later, a doctor told us you wouldn't make it through the night.

But you did. And then never figured out what was wrong with you.

Within a month you were visiting tons of doctors and no one could figure out what new thing was wrong with you -- a massive rash all over your body. By six months, we had figured out you were allergic to everything in the Universe. Duh. And so began our adventures in allergies. Had it not been for you, I may have never discovered my allergy to wheat and would continue to live my life in constant pain. Thanks for that gift.

At 15 months old you had your horrible eye accident. I knew you'd be fine, and you are. Yeah, okay -- you're blind in your left eye and that sucks ass. But you didn't have have brain damage and your third cyatic nerve regenerated so most people can't even tell. And you don't notice the difference either, except for the few occasions your left shoulder runs into something.

And the massive punkiness continues.

You are obsessed with all things music. Unless, of course, I'm singing along. Then you yell, "No! Mommy! I no like it!"

Happy Birthday sweet little Punk! Hope it was a good one! (pppst, I think you should get your hair shaved into a mohawk or something to celebrate the occasion). And congrats mama for surviving all that is motherhood. You do it well.